


Pick Your Poison

by laurlovescookies



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-26 12:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13858086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurlovescookies/pseuds/laurlovescookies
Summary: Anorexic Lance McClain has his life turned on its head when he's committed to a psychiatric home for troubled youth. In-between escape attempts Lance comes to know a bulimic named Keith Kogane with a tragic history. Delving into Keith's dark past sends Lance unwillingly wandering through his own, and he tries making sense of whom he and his friends are, as well as how they got here. Klance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. This intro is a letter Lance writes to his swim team right before his family withdraws him from school. Don't worry; the chapters will be much longer than this.

_To the Altean Senior High Boys' Swim Team,_

_My brother Marco will fill you in on the details as to why I'm not in school today, but I didn't want to disappear without a word. Please don't worry when I don't answer my phone. I'd tell you not to bother calling or texting, but I'd almost bet my stash of romance novels I_ swear _I just skim through that you will anyway, if only to leave angry voice mail. I can't answer my cell, not necessarily because I don't want to, but because I will not have access to my phone for some time. Nor will I be permitted to call anyone save for immediate family until I've been 'approved.' (No idea what that entails, and I don’t think I want to know.)_

_Seeing as I soon won't have any unsupervised phone or internet access period, I may or may not be busy rocking and whimpering in a corner by the time you get this. I’ll be wringing my hair out and screaming obscenities at parked cars while you guys are swimming laps after school. Rest assured that I'm safe, simply annoyed. Your intervention worked and my family sat me down last night for an intervention like I'm some kind of drinker or druggie, even though the hardest drug I've ever done is chocolate. Good job kids. Have yourselves a pat on the back and a sandwich. Now I might not be able to compete with you guys during the Regional Finals, which I won for us last year if you recall correctly. You’re welcome, by the way._

_Long story short, my dad, whom is standing over me as I write this...(hi, Dad, did you know reading someone else’s mail is a felony?) is sending me to Eating Disorder Camp. On a related note, Dad would like to add that it's a **rehabilitation clinic** , not a camp. Also, he doesn't appreciate the weak stab of humor I'm precariously clinging to ~~fill~~_ ~~cavernous voids in existence avoid going postal~~ _time._

_I'd try running now and write you from Anywhere, Canada, but ~~Marco is blocking the only exit, my sister Louisa has my keys, and again I might add that my Dad is standing over me to make sure I don't beg you to rescue me somehow because this is a huge mistake and I'm on the verge of hyperventilating~~ I decided with absolutely no help at all to patiently endure my (short) stay at the 'home' e ~~ven though it's much too expensive and insurance can only cover so much and this is a mistake~~ because ~~it'll get me out of class for a week or so~~ I'm taking charge of my admittedly already-good mental health._

_I wanted to apologize to you all for not messaging you individually because you're like family to me. But I'm afraid I've surrendered my phone because ~~I'm being held against my will~~ Dad thinks it's for the best. So, a group letter will have to suffice._

_This may be an overnight affair; I'm convinced they'll take one look at me and send me home with a Weight Watchers membership, TBH. Again, please don't worry: I might not be able to contact you all directly, but Marco is an immediate family member, so he's allowed to get updates._

_He's also giving you my forwarding address so that you can write me if you like; nothing against that, though I  personally have something against no one telling me where I'm going or how long I have to stay._

_I'm sorry again for putting you guys in this situation, for making you worry. (Again, please don't.)_

_This is a horrible big misunderstanding and I'm sure it'll be cleared up soon enough. Hopefully I'll be able to join you at Nationals after you win Regionals (and I'm sure we will :D), and hug you all soon because again, you guys are like family and I love you ~~a bit more than I want to strangle you all.~~ I also can't begin to tell you how fortunate I am to have you in my life, knowing you'll always help me ~~over a cliff~~ through hard times if I only ask ~~I never asked.~~_

_I'll call soon as I can, promise. Stay fabulous._

_~~Drop Dead~~ Yours ~~in Christ~~_

_Lance_

* * *

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We see Lance's first meeting with his designated group. Stuff happens. Please comment if you like stuff.

Lance took a deep breath as he slowly entered, regretting it instantly; the noisy dining room smelled like steamed dirty water and cauliflower. Not so different from school after all; there were even positivity posters and what Lance guessed were inspirational quotes pasted on pastel paper littering the walls. He tried reading the letters as he trailed after Caring Caroline, unable to keep the words from trickling onto the floor in alphabet soup. Lance tentatively looked around. The light was wan and there was a strange humidity to the chilly room, as if it were in a cold sweat. He looked back at his feet, looking for imaginary mines.   
  
There were several tables lined up in sections, numbers hanging above the groups on small, foam-sticker and glitter-covered signs. At least the aids here had a sense of humor, even a macabre one at best. Some people quieted as he entered, nudging their seatmates and subtly tipping their heads in Lance’s direction. His hands shook; he was pinned and wriggling against the wall under their gaze. He felt alternately too big outside, and too small in.   
  
At the center of the room sat a group of adults Lance assumed were all aids like Caring Caroline. Later that evening when he had his face buried in a vaguely-damp pillow trying not to make a noise, he’d come to think of them as AIDS—the adult personification of the disease. 

They had no Styrofoam trays and appeared to have brought their own dinners. He watched a startlingly-enormous man with sausage-like fingers shovel in gobs of food, smacking his lips and grunting, reaching for more chips as he chewed, and you could see his jaws furiously at work, fleshy lips smacking. A lot of the women at the table were just as big, if not bigger, all but attacking their food.    
  
Lance looked away, embarrassed for them, though he noticed several Altea in-patients (he thought  _in-mates_  for a moment) eying the aids with utmost loathing from all corners of the room. Still, he trudged with the march of a condemned man after Caroline, eager to prove he could at least obey like a sane person even if he couldn’t for a moment imitate her campiness with any semblance of sincerity.   
  
Caring Caroline came to a stop at the table marked  _Two,_  where four boys were quietly contemplating their trays along with a middle-aged woman in glasses. "And this is Group Two's designated spot," She said proudly, as if displaying the "Members Only" area roped off on a luxury cruise ship. The boys looked up at her voice. "Hi, you guys! How are you?” 

A pregnant pause. “Fine, since we saw you a half hour ago in group,” said one of the boys politely but pointedly.

  
The well-meaning woman clapped her hot hands on his sweater-muffled shoulders and Lance pressed his lips together, attempting a smile while wondering how he could politely shake her off. The effect was probably constipated.   


“This is Lance McClain! Our newest resident and group member! Please make sure to make him feel welcome!" 

The middle-aged lady promptly burst into enthusiastic applause. One of the boys leaned back in his seat, pale blue eyes scanning Lance appraisingly. His very-fair hair looked full and glossy, and it was well-coifed. Lance couldn't help but stare back, chin dipping slightly into his turtleneck. 

He was profoundly relieved that the boy didn't look like a spokes-model for starving Ethiopians, though it was also true that he was wearing two baggy, long-sleeved polo shirts. His pale eyes looked carved.   
  
"Hello to Lance," he drawled, resting his cheek in hand. With the other he flicked away the spork he'd been poking his pasta with. "So, you're an Annie? You look like one.”    
  
"Actually, I'm a Lance," Lance said snidely, knowing full-well what the boy meant. "No red hair, no random bursts into sickeningly-chipper show tunes, at least from that musical, anyway. It gives me cancer-aids. But frequent, nay, daily references or showtunes from _The Wizard of Oz_ or _Wicked_ are open game.” He clicked his boots together.   


“I’ll just let you boys get better acquainted,” Caring Caroline muttered, a nonplussed smile on her face as she nodded at the Group Two aid, and left. The boys tittered.  

Quipping a brow again, the taller boy automatically ducked his head to check Lance's footwear and smirked. "Those boots clearly weren't made for walking. I give it two days tops before they're stolen."   
  
"My boots were made for rocking," Lance said simply, sliding down into the space a boy at the end obligingly made for him. "And that's just what they'll do. But my non-violent principles aside, even if someone tries prizing them off my dead limbs I can't guarantee I won't kick them in the teeth with a steel toe." 

And with that greeting he pulled out the small paperback book he'd had in his pocket. The boy leaned forward across the table and in another instant swiped it.   
  
_"'The Casual Vacancy,'"_  he read, eyes flicking to the enormous author name above the title. "You bought it because you're a Rowling whore?"   
  
"Basically." Lance replied, not skipping a beat as he took it back. "If Rowling published _a How To With Glue_ I'd probably throw more money at her multi-billion dollar empire, despite my instinctual and crippling disappointment that it's not HP." The boy turned the book over to look at the reviews. "This is pretty good, though-basically _Love Actually_ but with a touch of existentialism. The Rihanna in it is just gilding the lily."   
  
The boy chuckled and shook his head.    
    
"Oh, I like this one," He drawled, sizing Lance up again. "Finally a Two groupie who's not a complete tool."   
  
"That's just mean," complained a tousle-haired boy, dark hair prematurely streaked with white. He shook his head and looked up at Lance, picking at limp salad. "First rule of thumb: Never listen to what Lotor says, ever. He's a lying liar who lies."   
  
“And a ho,” piped up a tiny, androgynous-featured boy with short, curly hazel hair said, giving Lance an unimpressed once-over through enormous glasses. Those glasses magnified their eyes, making them alarmingly large on such a small face. Lance realized with a small jolt the boy was a girl, albeit one whom looked like a cancer patient and wore a green and white sweater with sleeves that draped over her hands, making her resemble an amputee as well. “And speaking of tools, he’s basically a shed.” 

"That's just mean," Lotor griped. "You're a fine one to talk, considering every time you smile Pidge, an angel di-"   
  
"Okay, okay, guys," The aid hastily interrupted. Lance saw the rainbow-lanyard card around her neck read _Doting Dottie._ "Can you introduce yourselves?"   


"Shiro," Said the dark-haired cheerfully, extending a bony hand for Lance to shake. There was a pale, withery scar on his face, and one of his arms was prosthetic. "We heard you were coming last week.”   
  
The bloom of Lance’s small, genuine smile froze. A week. Everyone had been planning for a week, even longer. The bottom of his stomach dropped out, and it grew no better as a lunchroom aid unceremoniously dropped a tray in front of him. To his great dismay there was a _McLain, Lance_ sticker on its side, as if he were in a hospital. Hospitals were fucking awful because they made you feel so damn small and helpless. 

He poked at the tray’s contents. Meat-paste covered thin, hardened noodles. There was grease-soaked garlic bread, a small, syrupy cup of fruit, and a paper carton of milk. He immediately looked at the caloric number (170) and died a bit more inside. 

“Now, Lance. I assume you’ve already been walked through mealtime etiquette at orientation?” asked Dottie smartly.   


He managed a nod, his fingers curling into the hem of his sweater.   
  
_I have to eat all of this._  This plate had a higher caloric content than Lance normally ate in a  _day._  
  
 Shiro gave him a sympathetic look before gesturing affectionately to the androgynous girl beside him. "This is Pidge.” 

“Pidge can speak for herself,” she said dully, blowing bubbles in her milk carton. “By the way, if you’re wondering why a chick is sitting here instead of at one of the tables full of girl Annies, keep wondering. It’s none of your business.” 

“Pidge,” Doting Dottie reprimanded. Sebastian pantomimed writing in a notebook, muttering, _“Continues to show signs of hostility and aggression_ …” Lance guessed the latter was true as well when Lotor winced and he glared at her.    
  
"And this is Jude.” A bored-looking kid with honey-colored hair and taking slow sips of water in-between microscopic bites blinked. "I assure you, Jude's speechless right now because he's too overcome with joy at your arrival." Still sipping, Jude primly flicked his middle finger out and everyone laughed. "And you met Lotor." The silver-haired boy smiled toothily. "Another word of advice concerning Lotor: Don't drop the soap beside him in the shower."   
  
Dottie blushed, and Lance felt the rare trickle of hear in his cheeks. Far from looking abashed, Lotor only snickered, expression wolfish. He reached across the table and shoved Lance's shoulder playfully. "Don't look so startled, princess. You're sitting at the fucking boytown's table at an ED nuthouse. And as you know, boys who give a shit about their appearance are either queer or in denial."   
  
"Lotor." Scolded Dottie. "Language. And you know that’s certainly not true." 

  
"You're right," Lotor said earnestly, perhaps too innocently. He stabbed moodily at his pasta, more intent on taking it apart than anything else. "We boys whom care very, very much about maintaining a size two are clearly straight as spaghetti. We just wound up in this bitch for criminally-insane teenage girls because of the ladies. And the food. Ah, the food." He looked down at his full tray and whined, "Can I send my tray back? Someone took a dump on mine."   
  
_Criminally insane?_  
  
Dottie looked miserable.  Lotor calmly went back to picking at his food, though he glanced at Dottie downcast face every now and again, eyes flicking like a satisfied cat's tail. Lance wondered if that was what Lotor fed off of considering he wasn't actually eating anything.  
  
"I have a girlfriend," Jude protested weakly. "Really. I told you guys about her."   
  
"We know, Jude," Lotor groaned. "The 'one who lives in Canada.'" He didn't make quips with his fingers, but you could hear them. "Maybe when you write her next time she can give my regards to Santa and Bigfoot, considering they all clearly reside in the same vicinity."   
  
Jude blanched and Lance narrowed his eyes-because that really wasn't nice-though he had to palm a quick smile. Lotor's eyes flicked coolly to him, and then he winked.   
  
"New kid likes my standup," He drawled, looking down at his plastic cup of jello with a disgusted look on his face. "Though this crap makes me want to throw up, lie down and cry. Tell me, was this delicacy shoveled out of the stables, or was this tastefully scraped off the bottom of designer boots?"   
  
Most of the table groaned. Lance had been eyeing his fruit cup longingly, but now felt his empty stomach turn nastily. Shiro shook his head and frowned. “Easy.”   
  
"Lotor," Dottie said wearily, and Lance recognized her tone as that of a veteran's. “Would you like to sit in the quiet room for awhile?"   
  
"Why yes. Yes, mommy, I would." Lotor mocked, abruptly standing, hands smacking the table and rattling it.  "Next time, try working on your salesmanship. Any excuse to not eat this shit is a reward."   
  
“Diva,” muttered Pidge. Lance actually saw her seize her garlic bread and tuck it within her sweater while Dottie wasn’t looking, only to have her hand grabbed by Shiro’s. The tall boy gave her a stern look, and Pidge very reluctantly returned it to her plate with a scowl. Lance had the fleeting impression that Shiro had succeeded where Dottie would not have.

  
"Sit down," Dottie hissed at Lotor, eyes flashing dangerously. "Don't think for a second you're getting out of eating supper, even if you do it by yourself. You'll be written up again." All of Dottie's sugar-sad pretense turned to something biting.   
  
"And I doubt you want another demerit today. Even if you ultimately leave this house, your parents will simply place you in another. And considering your track record, I don't think you'll like it any better then here. It's time you realized this isn't a hotel, you're here to heal. And the longer you keep flaunting our rules, the longer it'll take for you to start a normal life. You'll be in the system for years, Mr. Zarkon, and you'll have nothing to show for it but debt while everyone you care about moves on with their lives, and leaves you behind."   
  
_Ouch._  

Lance lowered his skim milk carton, swallowing past the lump swelling in his throat. Lotor clearly had that one coming, but the words struck too close to home for Lance's heart not to seize with pain.   
  
Lotor's smug smile had not quite disappeared, though the former gleam in his eyes had. He slowly adverted his gaze back to his tray.  
  
"Christ." He sullenly resumed dicing his pasta. "Just kill me now."   
  
Pidge snorted humorlessly, sipping her skim milk as tentatively as if it were nitroglycerin. "Take a ticket and get off the line." 

  
No one said much after that, leaving no distraction from the unappetizing food. Eyes watering, Lance managed to push small bites down with intermittent sips of water.   
  
Maybe the staff would be willing to let him help in the kitchen; Lance prided the Sunday night meals he prepared. This was the rare occasion everyone was home and ate together. Because mama’s cook of choice was Paula Dean and because he genuinely loved cooking, Lance commandeered the kitchen, taking as long as three hours to fix as much delicious food as his brothers and sister could eat in three minutes. And these sessions were a gratifying test of Lance's self-discipline; he'd allow himself three or four bites of something he loved before begging off dinner, claiming he ate continuously as he cooked and was stuffed. And that had worked, for awhile.   
  
But Altea's food tasted of grease and cheap meat. Insult to injury. Wincing, Lance lowered his fork before deciding that today he'd impress Dottie and eat as much as he could. He'd be the best, most cooperative patient the facility ever had ever.   
  
He would exercise in his room tonight and burn off the excess calories-no one would be the wiser-and he'd keep the weight off. After his weight refused to change following normal meals, the nurses would understand he had a fast metabolism, that was all, and send him home. He could be home in a under a month, perhaps two weeks at worst, and somehow, come hell or high water, he'd be competing with his team and graduating.  
  
Lance refused to further examine the near-manic desperation with which he clung to this hope. The story of his life.   
  
By now Shiro wisely initiated conversation to the FIFA World Cup coverage, and he and Jude speculated as Lance over-chewed his bread crust, looking about the cafeteria. Every now and again the monitors stood to intercept trade-offs between tables, though it was rare.   
  
Group One actually consisted of four entire tables lined up together, filled with stick-figure teenage girls, some of whom actually had nasal feeding tubes and needed monitors to fill canisters with formula. Groups Three and Four-Lance wasn't sure why these particular thin people had been separated from One-were so small their tables were squeezed together. Groups Five to Eight were further back and it was hard to get a good view of them.   
  
He couldn’t help but note that nearly everyone else in the room was white. Lance wondered if the ratio actually reflected the public majority whom had eating disorders, or if it simply represented the demographic with the most families could afford treatment. That was depressing.   
  
He observed his new group members with the detached interest of watching a documentary of another species. Shiro slowly ate the lion’s share of his meal, though it looked like effort. Jude wouldn't touch his peaches. Pidge took occasional bites, following most with sips of milk as he did. Her hands were trembling, and were weirdly covered in a down-fuzz like his own. 

“Could you quit that?” she asked Lance. 

“Quit what?” 

Pidge huffed and gestured to Lance’s leg, which was thumping erratically underneath the table. “Making seismic waves.” 

Flustered, Lance hurriedly looked away again, wondering if Shiro would explain later on why Pidge was permitted to sit here instead of with the other girls. He wondered at the reasoning behind assigned seating, but he much preferred the free-for-all seating at the lunchroom where his eating (or lack of) habits went largely unnoticed, lost in the particular chaos at his table. 

He felt more self-conscious than ever, sitting here with people he had no business of being assigned with here.   
  
When mealtime ended, Lance was exhausted, stomach aching fiercely.  It was _humiliating,_ to be stripped of his resolve, of what had been his pride and strength for so long—what had gradually seeped into every contour of his being and become the epicenter of his life. An honor student and a varsity swimmer, someone whom never even received a parking ticket, Lance was know being punished like a petulant three-year old whom couldn’t be trusted to eat alone. 

Still, he was relieved that his first meal here had gone reasonably well; he never could’ve managed this at home. Considering this was a place meant to restore healthy appetites and attitudes towards food, you'd think they could serve meals that didn't make his high school cuisine look positively appetizing in comparison.   
  
When everyone claimed to have eaten all they could for the fifth or sixth time, the aids stood up to examine the trays more closely. It strangely felt like MasterChef, only everyone was critiqued for what was _off_ the plate.   
  
The aids appraised how much everyone at Lance's table had eaten, scribbling in their logs. Lance squirmed in a misery, replaying a _Simpsons_ clip in his head very loudly.   
  
In the end he only managed a few bites of pasta (indeterminate number of calories). The amount of corn syrup in his fruit cup made him wrinkle his nose, but he let the glutinous substance drip off each piece before letting the peaches slither down his throat, nectar and golden and cool and lovely. He pretended he was eating shit.   
  
Lotor's tray had been torn apart, save for a few petulant bites. Lance thought  Lotor simply had good table manners, but now he wondered if Lotor weren't simply spitting his food into his napkin every time he wiped his mouth. Only Shiro had eaten everything on his tray. Dottie enthusiastically high-fived him, which he half-heartedly returned, although Lance thought he heard what suspiciously sounded like a sigh.   
  
But what was most disconcerting by far was that practically everyone at Table Two had to be alternatively coaxed, chastised, urged, threatened (in Lotor's case) before they made any progress at all.   
  
"C'mon," Dottie had urged Jude as he doubtfully eyed his fruit. "You've got this. A few more bites. Beautiful, baby. And have some more pasta. I don’t think you’ve touched it at all.”   
  
"I'm vegetarian," he protested, pushing his tray across the center of the table. Dottie looked like she was resisting rolling her eyes with difficulty. "You ate your chicken no problem last night. You just shredded your roll."   
  
"That was chicken?" said Jude blankly, his eyes widening with mock horror. He clutched at his chest and slid off his chair. "God! I've eaten flesh! I'VE EATEN FLESH!" He raised his hands to the ceiling. "TAKE ME NOW, LORD, FOR I'VE EATEN FLESH!"   
  
The dining hall burst with peals of laughter. At Group One's Table, Lance saw one girl take advantage of her aid's momentary attention lapse to dump her full plate down her front. "Sorry," she said meekly as her aide whipped to face her, clearly irate. "I wasn't looking."  
  
"Alright, that's enough," Dottie growled, hoisting a still-grinning Jude back into his seat. "That's enough out of you, young man. I mean it."   
  
And for a moment Lance hated her, just for a guilty moment as they stood they were patted down like addicts (which, incidentally they were, but to starvation, not drugs). 

Group Two was told to sit down again once their trays were taken away. Feeling a foreboding pang, Lance weakly offered Dottie, "I can help wash dishes in the kitchen." 

Everyone ignored him.   
  
Heavyset ladies came bearing trays of Styrofoam cups. Everyone at Table Two but Shiro had one pushed in front of them. Lance peered inside hoping for water, heart sinking when he saw brown contents.   
  
Some people being ushered out of the cafeteria were casting their table dirty looks, and Lance shrank down in his seat. He would've given it away immediately if he could, whatever it was.   
  
"What...what is this?" He said stiffly, though he had a pretty good idea. "I don't want dessert. That doesn't count as part of a meal."   
  
"Hm, well, let's see....judging by the clumps, I'd say it's a toss-up between muck and sewage.”  
  
"Lotard," Pidge groaned. "I have to drink this shit."   
  
"That's so funny! Shit was my second guess!"   
  
"Ensure." Dottie explained. "When you're unable to finish a meal, you receive a dietary supplemental shake. It'll go down a little easier than food."   
  
"I really am full," Lance bleated, but she shook her head. As Dottie told off Lotor for blowing bubbles, Lance couldn't help but whisper in Jude's ear, "How many calories?" Jude shook his head.   
  
"I had my sister look it up once. You  _don't_  want to know."   
  
"It's not that many," Shiro murmured soothingly, probably because Lance looked on the verge of tears. "It's...it's not  _specifically_  a weight-gain shake."   
  
"I pretend it's Slim Fast," muttered Pidge. "Same gross-nasty, chalky chocolate taste."   
  
Liquid fat. An enormous cup of lard and sugar after a large meal. Lance glanced at the table legs and saw they were bolted down. No overturning it. This would be unpleasant, certainly. But what was a few weeks' calories when he could simply walk them off again, albeit more slowly this time? By the time Lance met his goal weight, he'd be out of the house and it'd be his own damn business. His finger traced _1-0-5_ on the table. 

  
Bracing himself, he took a long draft of the thing and nearly choked, mind going black. He barely refrained from spewing it all over the table.   
  
_Oh God.  
_  
Dottie's hands were on him in an instant and this time he shrugged her off, pressing his hands over his mouth, cheeks ballooning. It tasted like he imagined watered-down chocolate cottage cheese might taste.  
_  
I'm not swallowing. I'm not swallowing._  
  
"Don't." Pidge warned as Lotor howled with glee. "You _really_ don't want to get marked as a Non-Con your first day here. It gets sort-of easier, promise. Just finish, and you'll be done for tonight."   
  
"Chug! Chug, chug, chug!" Lotor exclaimed delightedly, ignoring his own shake.   
  
With some encouraging murmurs around the table and Shiro’s large hand on his back Lance forced it down, heart fluttering, and he swiped glistening palms on his pants. Dabbing hastily at his eyes, he eyed the rest of his cup's contents with no small amount of horror.   
  
"That..."   
  
"Tastes like death?" Pidge supplied helpfully. Lance gave her a small smile. "Um, if we need extra calories, couldn’t we have ice cream instead?"   
  
Everyone at the table chuckled. "Good luck with that," said Jude, taking a diminutive sip. "Honestly, that'd be a nightmare. Cause then you'd have stampedes, and the folks with bulimia and binge-eating disorder would go absolutely postal. No one here is allowed real sugar. Ever."   
  
"Wha-at all?"   
  
"Nope, not even the anorexics, and they're  _trying_  to fatten us up. Artificial sweetener is okay though, which I always thought was weird because that's stuff's supposed to be worse for you than actual sugar. It’s supposed to give you cancer or something.”  
  
"Everything causes cancer,” said Lotor.  


“You give me cancer,” Pidge said near in-audibly.     
  
"C'mon." Shiro drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. "I can't leave until you guys are finished. I for one don't want to be here all night."   
  
It really wasn't bad, provided you were holding your breath, ignored the warning aftertaste, and pretended you weren't drinking a cup of grease through a straw.   
Lance longed to fling his cup against the wall and run for the hills, but this was temporary, only temporary...  
  
"What's a Non-con?" He gasped, wiping his mouth.   
  
"Short for non-consensual. Those are people who have serious problems eating on their own. As in, they have to eat in their rooms alone with an aid practically pushing it down their throats. It does happen," Shiro added mildly when Lance gave him an incredulous look.   
  
"Only a few of us here are that bad off, but it happens. Some people made themselves so sick by not eating their systems can't even handle the shock of real, substantial food anymore. So they're hooked up to machines that feed formula through their noses."  
  
"That happened to me once." Lotor muttered darkly. "When I went on a hunger strike for a few meals. They finally pushed me into a wheelchair and—" He shuddered and pinched his nose. "Just drink the damn crap,” he said, voice sounded funny. “It's less calories than the pasta, and I want to get out too." 

Fifteen minutes later one of the aids performed another round of checks in their cups, and nodded approval. Lance shuddered with relief as everyone took their cue to leave. He'd already forgotten what Caring Caroline had said came after dinner on their schedules, but it was enough to leave a simple room that he knew deep down would become a veritable living hell for Lance when he already had a mobile one of his own. 

The halls were femur-colored, and the rare decor reminiscent of an office building in its inoffensive blandness. There was the reek of burnt coffee from a nearby room he guessed was an employee lounge, and the pungent odor of antiseptic along with the tired smell of boiled green beans. As they passed a poster with a stoic-looking puppy that read, YOU ARE STRONG, Lance thought that for a place that was painted with watercolors in a brochure, there was absolutely no mistaking the fact that this hellhole was the bastard lovechild of an institution and a summer camp. Maybe they could decorate their straitjackets with paintbrushes in their mouths. 

Dottie turned to Lotor. Perhaps she felt guilty for telling Sebastian off, or simply wanted to give him a chance to redeem himself, because she asked him, not  
unkindly: "Lotor, would you mind pairing up with Lance tonight?"  
  
"No. No I would  _not_  mind pairing up with Lance," Lotor said in his overly-bright, honeyed voice that had Pidge and Jude snickering. He playfully leered at Lance, rolling his eyebrows meaningfully. Lance felt heat rush to his face, though his hands were still freezing, wrapped in his sleeves. He probably looked like a paraplegic too now.   
  
"Well, new kid, let me give you the grand tour," Lotor announced as the group slowly marched through the house. He slung a bony arm around Lance's shoulder and the weight made Lance stagger a bit. "If you look to your right, you will see the restrooms, which I should warn you right now smell like death, and God help you if you need to use them on Taco Night. These facilities are also locked at all times-" Lance whipped his head around to stare at Lotor in disbelief, whom nodded sagely. "Unless you get a key from an aid, whom will either wait with you outside the door, or join you in the stall if, like me, you like to enjoy your food via regurgitating.."   
  
Lance marched dumbly along, staring at the ugly wallpaper, breathing in the icy, clinical smell of the place. Was this boy completely shameless? He'd never met someone else with an actual eating disorder-well, no one whom had actually _spoken_ of it-and who could be so plaintive about it. There was a degree of self-exhibition, of showmanship at work here.  Lotor almost sounded like he was boasting, while the starving lost boys who trudged around them kept their heads lowered, and said nothing.   
  
Lotor's sharp side bumped against Lance's protruding hip bone and the two flinched. Lotor continued calmly:   
  
"If you look to your right, you will see some ugly, mismatched furniture, and a fantastic amount of dead skin from the countless number of people who park their asses there for seven to eight hours a day, talking about their bad relationships with their mommies. If you look to your left, you will see some more charming motivational posters behind plastic, because some thoughtful residents-we're called residents, isn't that quaint?-like to alter these posters whenever we can smuggle markers from the guards. The previous ‘Hang in There’ kitten was sporting a charming Hitler mustache earlier this month..."   
  
"Lotor." Dottie said wearily. Her protests sounded perfunctory at this point.  
  
"We're not allowed to call them guards," Lotor said patiently as the boys came to a stop in a small room filled with sofas andchairs. There was a glass sliding door that led onto a porch, though it was padlocked. "To their faces, anyway. You'd be amazed at what you can otherwise get away with calling them. To your left and right you will see no mirrors, because you're supposed to be focused on 'the beauty within,' here, which sounds like a good book promo for fat soccer moms with too much free time on their hands. And we'll have to stop the tour for right now, though if you look to your left you'll see the patio that looks onto the great and glorious outside world, which just so happens to be a freeway. 'Freeway' by the way, is a great word, because it rhymes with a favorite of mine." He winked again. 

Lance looked out at the pale dusk, watching a lonely car coast past from down the hill, very far away.   
  
The boys started looking for places to sit around a small coffee table. There was a dusty piano in the corner, but not much else. People began turning on lamps.   
  
Feeling by now very tired (and still very cold) Lance sank into a squashy sofa, shifting awkwardly. His hipbone kept jabbing him, whichever position he tried. Lotor  
plopped beside him; if the action hurt him he refused to show it. He seemed fond of hearing himself talk:   
  
"That concludes this portion of our tour, though I'll be happy to show you around our tanning salon, golf courses, equestrian stables, ice-skating rinks, and numerous recreational facilities tomorrow." More snickering. Lance couldn't help but crack another smile and Lotor smirked, looking pleased  
with himself. "We're about to start evening group therapy, which is basically day group therapy, wherein a few whiny twinks rant about their day  
and you smile and nod in-between naps. Any questions?"   
  
"Yes, could we maybe get our coats and sit outside?" Lance asked, looking hopefully at the padlocked door. Not much by means of a view, but he was desperate for some fresh air, his sensitivity to the cold notwithstanding.  
  
Dottie looked like she wanted to speak, but someone else beat her to the punch. "Not anymore," sighed Pidge, curled up on an armchair like a cat. "Not since Mickeythrew a leg over the deck, and ran into traffic."   
  
The conversation fell silent. Not even Lotor cracked a joke at that one. Lance felt himself sink a little deeper into the sofa. 

_ I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here. _


End file.
